


Be Gentle to Yourself

by simplystargazing



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nothing terribly explicit, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplystargazing/pseuds/simplystargazing
Summary: It's been two weeks since the events in Rome, and Christopher Wolfe still can't speak. He's tried everything he can think of to summon the words to no avail. It's not until he sees some cracks in lover's armor that the words finally break free.
Relationships: Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	Be Gentle to Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> I'm brand new to the fandom and only part way through Paper and Fire but I've had such a need to write out something with these two. Let's blame it on listening to the Sweeplings way too much and the rainy weather I've been overrun with. The specific song inspiration is "Flesh & Bones," should anyone be curious!
> 
> Clearly, I don't speak Italian, -- "Sono cosi dispiaciuto" means I'm so sorry and "sii gentil con te stesso, Tesoro mio" means be gentle to yourself, sweetheart according to the internet.
> 
> I've not written any fanfiction or fiction otherwise in years, but this was fun to try my hand at!

The words still wouldn’t come, try as he might to force his tongue to form them. Christopher Wolfe growled out his irritation, tempted to chuck the stupid blank across the wall. He’d thought that attempting to read one of his standby favorites aloud would ease the psychological strain his battered mind associated with speech. Clearly, that had been a foolish thought.

Instead of releasing more of his frustration on the Codex Nic had scared up for him, Wolfe pushed the thing aside like the trap he knew it to be. He’d already tried to write out some of the many things he was desperate to say, had filled pages with jumbled scrawled that barely passed for handwriting. It was pathetic to be a Scholar, one who valued the power and authority of words so highly, but to be utterly powerless to harness them. Granted his still mending fingers at least made that particular difficulty understandable.

Chris reached for the now tepid mug of tea sitting on his bedside table, careful to hold it in both of his stupidly shaking hands. He’d already spilled at least a pot’s worth in the last two weeks of lucidity. His pride hadn’t allowed him to accept Nic’s help to guide the mug to his lips until he’d failed so much that he had nearly sobbed in frustration. He didn’t know what was worse, seeing the way his lover had twitched each time his hands refused to grip or the relief on the captain’s face when the scholar finally gave in.

Rome had already stripped him of so much, tore away every ounce of dignity that Chris would do everything in his limited power to keep his pride from being ravaged any further. If he had to claw every bit, so be it. Though, this resolve didn’t keep a violent shudder at bay at the thought of how much Qualls would revel in knowing his work had been so effective.

Wolfe swallowed. Forced his breathing to steady as Nic had instructed when the panic rose and threatened to crash over him. He was in Alexandria, safely ensconced in the home he and Niccolo Santi shared. Nic’s coffee mug still sat out from the morning, alongside a note he’d written in his sharp script about who Wolfe could contact to reach him during the day’s training exercises. This wasn’t a cruel trick that would end with every bit of comfort rescinded and replaced by the shackles around his wrists and ankles, a hard board of a bed, and derisive laughter at his stupidity for thinking he was free.

Enough of that. Wolfe had already subconsciously started to rub his wrists. It was getting harder to trace the grooves the cuffs had left but it was still possible. He had more pressing matters to attend to than the morbid introspection that left him cowering against the veritable mountain of pillows Nic had arranged for him, flinching away from even the slightest sound. Chris couldn’t bear seeing his lover falter before schooling his features into compassionate sympathy again.

He wanted to finally speak, wanted to say anything at all to the man he loved. They’d begun to piece together bits of sign language, enough to communicate basic needs. Wolfe had even fashioned a sign for Nic’s name, despite how easy it was to spell out -- two taps against his heart with two of the fingers that had mercifully been left unbroken by Qualls’ ‘ministrations’. It was getting easier to sign out full sentences as his hands healed, though Santi had said that his precise, sharp manner still came across. Leave it to the Italian who gesticulated so flamboyantly that Chris had long learned to keep a modicum of distance between them when Nic was excited to criticize his accent, so to speak.

Brow furrowed, Chris tried to get his tongue to obey. I love you, Niccolo. Thank you, love. Fuck you and your pity. If you ask me if I’m okay again, I’m going to scream, I’m so sorry, sorry for letting myself become this skeleton of a man. No, none of those worked. And Wolfe was damn grateful that no one was present to witness the embarrassing display of forming the words with only a huff or a dry cough to provide any sound. He groaned, dropping his head back against the pillows behind him.

Logically, the Scholar knew that being unable to speak was a consequence of trauma. Gods, he had even known children in the orphanage who had arrived caught in the same predicament he was in now. He could even recognize the haunted look that haunted the mirror when he caught a glimpse of himself. He had read articles detailing soldiers returned from a warzone mute. Nic had sometimes even needed an hour or two to gather himself after a particularly harrowing experience. But the theoretical possibility didn’t make it any easier to accept it as personal reality.

Before Christopher could continue to berate himself or skim through a list of other trauma related symptoms, the sound of the deadbolt shifting forced his spine to stiffen. Nic was graciously slow as he undid the locks, giving Wolfe time to adjust. “Chris, I’m home.” The other man called out; his voice still melodic despite the audible exhaustion. Chris had a sneaking suspicion that the Garda duties given to his love were purposefully strenuous, but Nic hadn’t given him much to go on to prove that hypothesis.

Wolfe let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold when the lock audibly clicked back into place. He’d seen his partner check every inch of their home to make sure it was secure, likely to settle both of their terribly frayed nerves in that department. That peace of mind, of course, vanished the moment Nic left for whatever official duty he had to attend to. And no, there was no bit of petulance in that thought. He was grateful that his love had been able to take the time off he had.

Nic trudged through the doorway, his beautiful face lightening up. Chris would have liked to draw a comparison to a happy puppy but that probably would have been too fresh a dig even if he had been able to verbalize it. Never mind that that unabashed grin had kept Wolfe alive during the nights when he had wanted nothing more than the darkness of his cell to swallow him whole. Instead, he offered a smile in return, or at least what now passed as a smile. The expression still felt unnatural on his lips. 

But Nic didn’t seem to notice as he entered their bedroom, the smile having softened now but still present. “Did you rest well today, love?” It was a simple question, one that Wolfe could answer without making it obvious he was lying, half-lying. 

Chris hummed in response, the noise settling in his throat when Nic carefully climbed into bed beside him. Each movement was slow, calculated as to allow plenty of time for him to offer or withhold his consent. Some days Wolfe couldn’t bear the thought of being touched, not even by his partner. Other days he couldn’t allow any amount of space to come between them. 

Thankfully, today was more of the latter. Chris curled into Santi’s side, smelling the crisp scent of the sandalwood soap that Nic must have swiped at some point during their separation. Wolfe’s heart twinged at the thought of his love using his soap to hold onto some physical memory. Maybe that’s what made it easier for Chris to let himself be coddled – realizing how difficult the last year must have been for the captain, try as he might to conceal it.

Chris grasped onto one of Nic’s calloused hands, letting out a contented sigh when he was rewarded with fingers threading through his thick hair. It had slipped out of the braid Nic’s expert fingers had woven it into before bed the night before. Wolfe’s hair had always been wild but since Rome it truly had a mind of its own. Nic had tried to cut the week before but Chris had flinched so bad at the glint of the scissors that he’d knocked them from the other man’s hands and hadn’t been able to stop convulsing for what felt like hours.

“I’m sorry I was gone the whole day, Chris. I meant to get away earlier this afternoon, but my commander held me up talking about some of the new recruits.” Nic started, beginning his sentence the way most of his did nowadays. The regret in his eyes was clear, though Chris already knew that he wasn’t just sorry for that. “I’m sorry.” He repeated, bringing their intertwined hands to his lips.

He had woken up the night before to what he had first thought was a dream, since it was Nic murmuring into Italian that broke through his medicated sleep. But Nic had always whispered sweet-nothings or warm encouragement, not the broken pleas that he eventually understood, once he’d woken up enough to grasp them.  


_Sono cosi dispiaciuto. Sono cosi dispiaciuto. Sono cosi dispiaciuto, amore mio._ Murmured over and over again into his hair, Nic’s ordinarily strong voice watery and broken. Seeing his lover in such immense pain was worse than anything Qualls had ever devised. And yet the captain had woken him gently the next morning, running ghost-like fingers over Chris’ neck, refusing to address the dark circles under his own emerald eyes.

“It’s not your fault, Nic.” Chris whispered, his voice raspy from a combination of disuse and a year of over-exertion. “It could…never be your fault.” He spoke louder, gingerly turning to face the man he loved with every fiber of his broken body, down to his bones.

“buon Dio.” It was an inhale of breath rather than a sentence. The intensity of Nic’s gaze was blinding, his mouth gaping open. But Chris didn’t look away.

Praying to all of his gods and Nic’s singular one that his voice would continue to cooperate. _“Sii gentil con te stesso, Tesoro mio.”_ The lyrical words came out haltingly, every word a battle that he desperately had to win. 

Nic looked at him as if he had overcome Goliath with only one stone and a hand behind his back. Using the mattress as support, Chris leaned forward to claim a kiss as his prize, one that Nic gratefully returned.


End file.
